“I’m not going to have the Doctor arrested just because you don’t like him,” she said.

     Bram leaned against the wall across from her desk.  She had never seen him pout before, but since the appearance and subsequent disappearance of the Templar, Bram hadn’t been himself.  She used to rely on his solidity, as solid in fact as the sun rising each morning or the Computer having answer for her.  But he was shaken now.  She could tell he didn’t go to bed last night, didn’t take a shower this morning, didn’t bother to change his uniform.  He was wrinkled and dazed, sharp eyes drilling into her from under drooping eyelids.

     “I just want you to detain him.”

     “What has he done?”

     He wanted to tell her that he was dangerous, an unreliable factor to the equation of the Templar.  He wanted to tell her that the Doctor assaulted him, disabling a grip he shouldn’t have been able to, using training he wasn’t supposed to have.  He wanted to go to sleep, and regain his strength, rest his mind.  But he had to be up to organize the hunt.  He had to requisition and reorganize, shift schedules and change duty rotations.  He could have left it up to the Computer, but he liked to have a say in what went on in his command, a hand in decision making policy.  If he turned over any small part to the Computer, then it would be even easier next time until soon, he would only teach combat classes, and even that could be simulated.

     “I don’t think we can trust him,” was all he answered.

     “I wish that were enough,” she huddled over the keyboard, fingers tapping in a series of commands.  “The files on him are clean, and the Computer suggest probabilities are almost nil.  He’s clean and we have to respect that.”

     “I could post a guard on him.  For his on protection.”